I look back at this month and watch seconds pass by through a window. Time swallows even the most intense bouts of grief. It's not a guarantee, but it's something I choose to put my trust in. It's better that way I guess, than put my trust somewhere less reliable, like myself.
I guess that's the most difficult part to stomach-- the mere thought that I can't trust myself anymore. How could I allow anyone else to trust me, when I can't even trust myself?
When people read these lines, they might think I'm moving on from something, from someone or someone(s), from a heartbreak.
The answer is D. All of the above. Shade the answer in with a black felt marker, to absorb the crushing weight of the statement.
The most tragic part about it is that not only did I break my own heart, I demolished my own soul as well.
When someone asked me on this platform,
what happened to me for the past three months,
what happened to me during my long bout of silence,
what happened to me while the world expressed pandemonium the moment they left 2022 by the door?
I would be lying if I said a part of me died. A part of me didn't die. A whole of me did.
Everything I thought I knew,
everything I was,
and everything I thought I was? Gone.
My credibility? Gone.
My tenacity? Gone.
My resolve and resilience? Gone.
And she grieved for it. For more than a month in fact, and during that time, nothing else made sense to her except silence and tears. Not a day went by when her eyes wouldn't swell up from all the crying.
The girl who knew all the right words to say,
who knew all the right answers, to all the right questions,
who prided herself for knowing the right questions to ask,
The girl who could PERFORM as if her life depended on it?
Gone, dead, and buried, in a garden of daffodils along the fields of 2022.
She finally rested in peace after a long, LONG, struggle of trying to hold everything together on her own, after trying to piece every shard of brokenness all on her own, after foolishly thinking she was limitless, omnipotent, and neglecting herself for far too long. All to be there for people she wanted to be there for, even up to the point of getting medical help, because that's what she was taught.
That's what she thought of what it meant to be worthy.
She finally died,
succumbing to all her misguided beliefs,
succumbing to all the voices in her head,
that she wasn't worthy of love,
that she will always have to work for it,
that she will never deserve good things in life,
that she wasn't someone people weren't willing to cross the oceans for,
that she was someone people could take for granted,
that she was someone people could abandon easily,
and that she will always will be.
She got to meet God and looked at Him squarely in the eye, before finally letting out the last of her breath.
She was a child of the world's brokenness. A product of it. A victim. A poster girl.
The person who is writing this right now is someone else. She might be less fun, but I hope you give her the benefit of the doubt the way you did with the previous girl.
She's a storyteller. She doesn't know much, but she can't wait to tell you her stories.
"Hi, I'm Roxanne. It's nice to meet you, everyone..."
...especially you guys 💕
@consciouscat
@chinito
@fermentedphil